The best military fiction books from Next Chapter [March 2023]
Military fiction is a genre of literature that focuses on military settings, themes, and characters. It typically features a mix of action, adventure, and suspense, often with a strong emphasis on realistic depictions of military strategy, tactics, and technology. Military fiction can take many forms, from historical novels set in the past to futuristic tales of space warfare.
One of the defining characteristics of military fiction is its attention to detail. Authors who specialize in this genre often draw on their own experiences serving in the military, as well as extensive research, to create believable and engaging stories. They may include detailed descriptions of weapons and equipment, as well as insights into military culture and psychology. This attention to detail can make military fiction particularly appealing to readers who have a personal connection to the military or an interest in military history.
Another key aspect of military fiction is its exploration of themes related to war and conflict. While military fiction can be thrilling and exciting, it also raises important questions about the human cost of war, the morality of violence, and the role of the military in society. Many military fiction novels also explore the personal experiences of soldiers, such as their relationships with their fellow troops and their families back home, making them powerful and poignant works of literature.
On this page, we’ve collected five of Next Chapter’s best military fiction novels, now available from all major booksellers. Whether historical or contemporary, we believe one of the books on this page will be what you’re looking for!
If you enjoy one of the books on this page, please don’t forget to leave the author a review :) Don’t agree with our choices? Please leave a comment and let us know which war fiction book is your favorite!
Books featured on this page
Blood Oath (Warrior's Path Book 1) by Malcolm Archibald
Sea Wolves (The Sceapig Chronicles Book 2) by John Broughton
Windrush: Crimea (Jack Windrush Book 2) by Malcolm Archibald
Blood Oath (Warrior's Path Book 1) by Malcolm Archibald
Book excerpt
“Our artillerymen will set up guns here,” Chisholm said, as they stood on recently captured Lighthouse Point. “It’s an excellent spot to batter the French.”
“It’s a strange angle to hit the town,” MacKim said.
“We won’t target the town. See the artillery battery on that island down there?” Chisholm pointed to the wind-ruffled blue of the harbour. “Their guns defend the harbour. From up here, our guns can silence the French battery, and that will allow our ships to move closer, maybe cut out the French vessels. A siege is like chess, each move calculated to cancel out the enemy’s pieces and move closer to capturing his king.”
“It’s very cold-blooded,” MacKim said.
“War is cold-blooded. Move and counter move, with careful planning as important as courage.” Chisholm sighed. “The old days of a crazed charge with swords are gone, MacKim. We learned that on Culloden Moor. Now we have to fight by manoeuvre. Disciplined bravery and firepower win battles, not a few moments’ recklessness. Courage counts for nothing before massed musketry.”
On June 19th, with all the guns in position, the batteries on Lighthouse Point opened fire on the island.
“How many guns have we?” MacKim asked.
“Seventy,” Chisholm knew all the answers, “including cannons and mortars. Not all on Lighthouse Point, of course.”
After a few moments, the powder smoke hid everything from view, and the constant thunder of the guns prevented any conversation. Only when the guns fell silent and an offshore wind blew away the smoke, did MacKim see that the guns had marginally damaged Louisbourg’s wall and holed the roofs of some of the more visible buildings. It seemed little result for such a great effort.
“What happens next?”
“We have to make a breach in the walls,” Chisholm explained. “When we’ve done that, we’ll ask the French to surrender. If the French commander thinks he can’t hold off an attack, he will surrender, and we’ll take possession.”
Sea Wolves (The Sceapig Chronicles Book 2) by John Broughton
Book excerpt
Rochester, Kent, 830 AD
In one of life’s ironies, Asculf was unable to begin repair work on the bridge for the same reason that, later, was to bring it to a brilliant conclusion. The unexpected delay to his plans occurred when a messenger arrived from Aethelwulf in Canterbury. The king ordered him to gather as many armed men as quickly as possible, as they were to march to Winchester.
Shocked that the message gave no motive for the command, the ealdorman pressed the envoy for information, but none was forthcoming since the apologetic rider was as ignorant about the matter as himself. All sorts of strange thoughts tormented him as he set in motion the mustering. That he did not wish to be part of an expedition to overthrow King Egbert, was his wildest thought. A revolt? Could the aetheling be planning to usurp his father? In reality, a bloodbath for dynastic supremacy was far from Aethelwulf’s thoughts, as Asculf discovered when his force joined the others at Canterbury.
“Greetings, Asculf! Is your blade well-honed, my friend? Today, we march to Winchester at my father’s bidding. He has turned his attention to the Welsh. It seems that Merfyn, the ruler of Man, has become King of Gwynedd. The man is a client of the Vikings who operate out of Ireland. The Welsh are attempting to overthrow Mercian overlordship. You know what that means, don’t you, Asculf?”
“I do not. Tell me.”
Aethelwulf snorted. “Father has removed the Mercian threat to our northern borders and subjugated Northumbria without shedding blood, only for the Welsh to raise their crests on our north-western confines. The Britons in Cornwall are in constant foment abetted by the Vikings in Ireland, meaning that this menace has to be nipped in the bud.”
“Ah, now I see. So, we’ll join our Kentish forces to those of Wessex and march into Wales.”
“You are as sharp as your blade, Ealdorman.”
“The runes of victory have never betrayed my family.”
“Let it be so, also on this occasion!”
The army of Kent followed the natural causeway running east to west on the southern slopes of the North Downs. In this way, they ensured good progress by avoiding both the cloying clay of the land below and the harsher clay, insidious with flints, above. Well beyond Rochester, Aethelwulf turned to Asculf and said, “This is a well-trodden route—in Wessex, we call it The Harroway. It was here before the Romans, but you will see that in some parts, their road-builders left their mark.”
The Shadow Of The Mole by Bob Van Laerhoven
Book excerpt
Alain went through the whitewashed corridor to the back door and into the garden. Sweat on his back. Spine tingling. A strong stance, quick. Fight this thing.
He breathed deeply the wet night air and felt the increasing rigidity of his highest vertebrae.
Breathe. It will pass.
“Alain.”
He kept on sucking air in his lungs and didn’t look over his shoulder. Through the living room window, his grandfather had seen him leave the house via the back door. Yves Alain had followed his grandson, suspecting what was about to happen. Almost a year ago, he had found Alain for the first time, thrashing on the ground, flaring eyes, foam on his lips. With his sturdy soldier’s hands, he had pulled the boy’s swollen tongue out of his throat.
“Alain, you’ll catch a cold if you stay there.”
Alain tried to concentrate on that mundane comment and felt the threat of an attack subsiding.
“Go inside, Alain.” Yves laid a hand on his grandson’s shoulders.
“Yes, Pépère.”
“Come.”
“Pépère,” said Alain through his clenched mouth, “I would rather be there.” He pointed to the moon.
Yves turned his grandson slowly around. The boy should’ve been asleep by now. He had probably sneaked into the attic again to read his father’s books. He should instruct the village blacksmith to put a lock on that attic door.
“It’s gruesome cold on the moon, they say.” It was meant as a joke, but it didn’t sound that way.
“Monsieur Verne has been there,” Alain said. “He stood on the moon and saw our world beneath him.”
Yves shook his head. “Monsieur Verne hasn’t been on the moon, boy. De la Terre à la Lune is a tale of fantasy. Verne is writing about things that aren’t real; he just makes them up. You shouldn’t read his books.”
“I believe he has been there,” said Alain. “And I want to go there too.”
“Why should you want to be on the surface of the moon?”
“Because then everyone would know my name.”
Never Such Innocence Again by Giles Ekins
Book excerpt
Gone off the same night, following the drum.
As Jack Garforth and the other miners walked across to the pitheads to start their morning shift, Jeb Fulcher eased open the warped back door to his tied farm cottage and slipped out into the dark pre-dawn stillness, a stillness that wrapped itself around the row of mangey labourers’ hovels of Highfield Farm like a cold wet cloth.
As the name might suggest, Highfield Farm stood high on the south, facing slopes of the valley and was still buried in deep shadow as Jeb climbed over the dry stone wall at the corner of the houses and dropped down into the fields, and skirted past the herd of Shorthorn cattle that were the pride of Highfield. Jeb sometimes fancied that Hector Whitehead, the owner of Highfield, thought more of his Shorthorns than he did of his wife and children—certainly he spent more time with them and seemed to take more care of them, forever checking on them and writing up all the details in his stock book.
Scurrying crabwise downhill towards the copse at the base of the valley, Jeb hunched over like a mole-skinned Quasimodo in the hope that this would make him less visible.
Jeb Fulcher was a stout, stunted man with disproportionately long arms and the gnarled appearance and complexion of an ancient olive tree. Clumps of mousey hair grew on the top and sides of his head like clots of marsh grass in a swamp, and the most prominent aspect of his face was a great hooked nose, standing out from the blandness of his face like a granite outcrop on a sandy plain. He thought this nose to be a noble ornament, Romanesque, patrician even, the distinguishing feature of an imposing visage, whereas everyone else simply thought that he had a big conk and called him Nebbie Jeb or Jeb the Neb behind his back.
Jeb the Neb crossed over seven more fields, eight more walls, so that by the time he reached the copse, he had left Highfield property and was onto Exham lands. As always, he felt a little grim smile of satisfaction creeping across his face; Jeb loved to poach from His Lordship, even though it would mean a heavy fine or even prison if he were ever caught. He had nothing against His Lordship, it was simply that his elder brother Samuel, miserable old bastard that he was, was Lord Exham’s head gamekeeper and Jeb was always eager to get one over on him. Jeb and Samuel had never got on, even as children, and even though they still lived barely four miles apart, they hardly ever saw each other and could barely speak civilly to each other when they did.
There had always been trouble between them; they had been forever scrapping in bloody-nosed scuffles over nothing, nothing that is except the fact they did not like each other, had never liked each other, and never would like each other. Blood might be thicker than water, but in their case, the fratricidal gore was curdled—thick-sour and rancid.
Samuel had left Highfield Farm at 14 to go and work for Lord Exham as an apprentice gamekeeper and, ever since, Jeb had taken perverse pride in poaching on Exham land, poaching from right under his brother’s nose, setting wire snares along the rabbit runs, lifting a pheasant or two from here and there, and always taking grouse from the high moors beyond the dale before the 12th July, the glorious twelfth when all the nobs came to stay with Lord Exham and shoot.
Jeb reached the edge of the copse, and stood very still for a good five minutes, listening for alien sounds that might indicate gamekeepers, not that he expected there would be, Samuel had not caught onto him yet, but caution and sharp ears were the hallmarks of a good poacher and Jeb Fulcher was the best in the valley.
'Aye, no doubt bugger Sam’s still ploughing that scrawny chicken-necked bitch of a missus of his, else snoring his big gob off,' Jeb said sourly to himself and, satisfied at last, eased himself silently into the copse, moving as smoothly as a shadow over polished marble, and checked out his snares.
Windrush: Crimea (Jack Windrush Book 2) by Malcolm Archibald
Book excerpt
General Reading looked up as Jack limped across the room to his desk. 'I heard that there was a disturbance near the harbour last night. I hope nobody caught you.'
'No, sir.' Jack placed the pile of documents on Reading's desk. 'I took everything I could find, sir. These are the papers I thought looked most interesting.'
Reading shuffled through them quickly and rang his brass bell. The same young lieutenant appeared, looked down his aristocratic nose at Windrush and sprang to immediate attention. 'Sir?'
'Fetch Mr. Bulloch.'
A moment later Bulloch appeared. 'Morning General, morning Windrush.' He lifted the documents. 'You were successful I see.' He flicked through them. 'Did anybody see you?'
'Yes, sir; as we left,' Jack said, 'but I don't believe that they saw our faces. Private Riley did most of the work, sir.'
'Did he indeed?' Bulloch lifted an eyebrow. 'And where did he acquire the skill to break into a house?'
'I believe he was a burglar, sir,' Jack said.
'Not by that name, I wager.' Bulloch frowned as he looked at one of the sheets of paper. 'And I wonder about Stevensen's real name as well. None of these papers is in Swedish. They are in English, Maltese, Russian and French, yes, but not Swedish.' He placed them in the leather case he carried. 'Did you notice anything unusual about the house, Windrush?'
'Only that three men were patrolling, and they spoke English as well, sir.'
'English has been used as the lingua-franca in Malta ever since we occupied the island,' Bulloch said, 'so speaking English is not unusual.'
'They did not speak it like Maltese, sir,' Jack said. 'They spoke it like native speakers, I think.'
'Like Englishmen?' Reading asked.
'No,' Jack thought for a moment. 'Not quite. I didn’t recognise the accent, sir. It may have been from one of the colonies; Canada perhaps or Van Diemen's Land.'
'A Demonian?' Bulloch sounded suddenly interested. 'It could be a ticket of leave man – or an escaped convict.' He took a deep breath. 'What was he like?'
'There were three that I saw. Two were mundane, men who you wouldn’t notice in a crowd; the other was tall with an eyepatch. He spoke more.'
'He was tall with an eyepatch and a colonial accent.' Bulloch altered his voice and said, 'Did he speak with a drawl like this, unhurried and soft?'
'Yes, that's it,' Jack agreed.
'I will watch for them,' Bulloch said. 'You, of course, won't be here.' He looked at Reading. 'Now that Lieutenant Windrush has more than done what you ordered, general, I am sure you will soon keep your side of the agreement.'
There you go: the five best military fiction books from Next Chapter in 03/2023. We hope you enjoy the books on this page - and if you do, please leave a comment below, or a review in Goodreads or your favorite store. We’d really appreciate it!
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